Solitudes
by Adamantium Rose
Summary: You are locked in a very small cell, in the dungeons of a rather malevolent, insane wizard. Don't forget that everyone thinks you're the next Dark Lord. Consequently, there's no rescue on the horizon. Still, at least you aren't alone. Now what happens?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Really.

(Inspired in part by jbern's fabulous _Bungle in the Jungle. _Go read it.)

1.

Four years ago, if someone had told you that you were a wizard and would eventually fight off a troll, a basilisk, and a possessed teacher while attending a school for magic (more specifically, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry) you likely would not have believed them. If, by some miracle you had continued paying attention to this hypothetical person, you would be told that, at the age of thirteen, you would have a mass murderer out for your blood. A mass murderer who wasn't actually a mass murderer, as it would turn out, but a dog. Well, he would also be a man and your godfather as well. After you turned fourteen, you would be forced to compete in a tournament that you didn't want to compete in because of a magical contract that you didn't sign. You would, naturally, have told that person that they needed medicine, and fast.

Now though, you take it all in stride. It was your life after all, and now that you've lived through plenty of bizarre things, it doesn't seem so bad.

However, your current situation looks to be bad. Very, very, bad.

You, along with your best friend and your most hated teacher, are locked in a very small cell, in the dungeons of the rather malevolent dark lord who's been after your blood since you were born. Your friends, not to mention the rest of the Wizarding world all think you are the next Dark Lord, and that you killed the two people who are now sitting next to you. Obviously, you didn't, but the world doesn't know that, now do they? So, there'll be no rescue on the horizon.

To top it all off, you have no magic. You hate to admit it, but what choice do you have? You're a squib now, plain and simple. Just like Snape and Hermione. Squibs the lot of you.

You shake your head, and try to turn your mind to less depressing thoughts. It's hard to ignore the deep seated ache in your chest, though. You feel a bit cliché, but you honestly never noticed your magic until it was gone. Now the emptiness haunts you, just like the look in Hermione's eyes when…

No. You won't think about that. You won't think about how Voldemort took control of your body, and how you could only watch helplessly as disgusting, horrible things came out of your own lips. You won't let yourself remember the look in Hermione's eyes as she stared you down, pleading for you to fight him off. Or how she accepted it, and forgave you in that moment when the syllables escaped your lips. The flash of green that haunts you still.

She's still alive, you remind yourself. _But to what point?_ A part of you whispers. _You took her magic, committed the worst possible crime under wizarding laws. And not only that, you took Snape's as well. You blew his cover, and then took his magic. After all he, and she, tried to do for you, that's how you thank them? What's left?_

You see the futility of the situation. You have no magic, and the world thinks you dead, or worse. Actually, they believe your companions to be dead, and you to be evil. You're bleeding from several places, and bruised in countless more. Neither Hermione nor Snape are any better off. And now you can hear boots tramping down the hall towards your cell, no doubt for your daily Session, and wonder what type of _fun_ it will be today.

Bellatrix and Lucius open the door with a bang, wands out. Both you and Snape groan. Hermione just burrows deeper into your already bruised side. _Crucio _it is.


	2. Chapter 2

You wipe the last traces of spittle from your lips before turning to face your fellow… captives. Snape is still pressed into the wall, his face turned from yours, but you don't need to see the blood seeping slowly from his nose to know that it is there. Hermione has yet to wake, and you try in vain to hide the shaking in your limbs as you inch over to her. She is breathing, thankfully, and you allow yourself a brief flash of belated worry at this. You don't know what you would do if she was gone. You don't want to even think about it, sternly ignoring the infuriatingly practical little voice in the back of your mind that whispers about realities and eventualities.

A rather unlady-like groan snaps your attention back to the present, she's waking up. You don't move from where you are, half-sprawled by her side, and you decide that it isn't a matter of not wanting to move, more a physically inability. The shaking has gotten worse, and your entire right leg is twitching every so often. Looking up as subtly as you can while exhausted beyond all measure (which isn't very subtly), you see that Snape has finally moved a bit, and if you really look for it, you can see the tremors that wrack his body as well.

Forgoing your inspection of the exposed spy for a moment, you turn your attention back to your best female friend for the time being. Actually, you suppose that she's your only female friend after all of this, if not your only friend at all. (It isn't until you see Hermione's confused and slightly pained expression, not to mention Snape's lone quirked eyebrow, that you realize you _might_ have said that last bit out loud.)

"Sorry- bugger!" you croak, wincing belatedly from the pain. You make a mental note to avoid screaming your throat raw anytime soon. Snape's gaze, layered with pain and the ever present tinge of sarcasm, doesn't waver. In lieu of speech you settle for gazing stonily back at the man, until a flash of green arcs across your vision and you drop your eyes sharply, and take a deep, shaky breath, and simply try to forget. _"A mudblood and a traitor, a half-blood traitor no less! You don't even deserve the death I am about to grant you!"_

You blink and the memory is gone. Snape is still staring, but you wonder bemusedly if that is a trace of worry you see in his eyes? Hermione has finally eased herself into a sitting position and you turn to her now, falling back into the familiar routine of checking each other over for injury. You have both been in enough scrapes for the action to be nearly automatic, though the situation has never been quite this desperate, you grudgingly admit to yourself. "M'fine, Harry." She mumbles, sagging against the wall. "Just tired." The rough crack in her throat reminds you that you were not the only one to scream themselves raw. You wonder how long you will all be "fine" for, how long you can all keep it up. The three of you settle yourselves more comfortably in the cell, and it is only later you notice that you are all within touching distance.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Nope, not me.

3.

You get no warning that he is there. One minute, you are bracing yourself for the daily Session, wondering who your warden will be today (hopefully not MacNair, you have no desire to get personally acquainted with that knife of his…) and the next, you are staring the Dark Lord in the face. You are feeling a hair better today, courtesy of a relatively short session with Lucius yesterday, and make the effort to stand and face the bastard on two feet. "Hello, Tom." You drawl, ignoring the way your abused voice rasps. "Fancy seeing you here. Tea?" You gesture expansively to your accommodations. A cell, barely large enough to fit the three of you, with a packed dirt floor has been your home now for several days. (You'd know exactly if your watch hadn't broken after the second task.) The walls seem to have been reinforced with stone, likely of magical origin, and a hole in one corner is the extent of their "facilities".

Voldemort snarls and backhands you viciously. Your reflexes are slowed by the torture sessions and the general lack of food, and you crash into the unforgiving stone. You blink groggily, and see a furious Hermione being restrained, barely, by Snape. Still stunned, you don't fight as you are chained to the wall by your wrists and ankles. Snape's snarl of fury pulls you out long enough to see the other two in the same predicament as you, before you are falling dizzily into nothingness.

You land on an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. A small black haired boy is playing quietly in one corner, a toy dinosaur clutched in each hand. You can only faintly hear the words the boy is muttering as he clashes the two dinosaurs together. "…my land! Arghh!" He mumbles, smiling slightly as the t-rex wins and begins devouring the hapless stegosaurus. "Ahh, no!" he says, slightly louder, mimicking the plight of the stegosaurus. "Curse-"

The door slams open, and in charges a bull of a man, heavily built, and you do not need to get any closer to smell the stench of alcohol on the his breath. "What do you think you're doing, boy? Making this infernal racket! What have I told you, you ungrateful little monster?" The man lunges forward and grabs the boy by his collar, pulling him close. He is surprisingly agile for one so inebriated. "What did I say? You are to make NO NOISE! ABSOLUTELY NONE!" The boy squeaks slightly and nods frantically, and you find yourself remembering the ringing in your ears as your uncle bellowed much like this.

What happens next reminds you even more strongly, and you find yourself shaking, both from anger and from the effort of fighting off a flashback to a moment oh-so-similar. Even now, you can feel the sting as each crack of the belt landed, and the sharp pain where the buckle connected. You cannot stop yourself, and you move to end this, to end the "punishment", only to have your hand pass right though the man's wrist. You still abruptly, and begin to look at your surroundings, using all your will power to ignore the sounds from behind you. Finally you spot a newspaper, and you hurry forward to investigate. In the corner, you can just barely read the words Saturday, August 28, 1967.

You step back, reeling. If this isn't really happening right now, you think, but in 1967- you turn sharply and stare at the small boy, now alone, who is collapsed on the ground. His face is grimy and streaked with tears, and the bones more prominent, but the dark eyes leave no doubt in your mind that you are in one of Severus Snape's memories.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine.

4.

For a moment, all you can do is blink. You don't know what to say, or for that matter, what to think. It is bizarre, seeing your least favorite professor like this- young and vulnerable. Human.

You take a step towards the boy, unthinking, lost in the shock and chaos of the moment. You are torn between your own memories of nights in the cupboard, stiff and sore, and the knowledge that this is _Snape_, a man who has tormented you for several years now. Memories win. You approach slowly, hands outstretched, hoping to appear nonthreatening. After a minute, you slowly place a hand on the boys shoulder and-

The world shifts and stretches like taffy. You reel back, trying to make sense of the swirling maelstrom of colors that envelop you. With a crack everything snaps back into focus, and you find yourself in a now familiar room, on a now familiar bed. Dread begins to grow in your stomach, and there is a sour taste in your mouth. The sudden whiff of alcohol through the open doorway does nothing to assuage your fears. You try to brace yourself for it, but to no avail.

The small body sails into the room and hits the floor with a smack. You cringe, unable to close your eyes and block out what you know is coming. You can only watch, caught between the horror that you are witnessing and the deep, poisonous ache of familiarity.

Your bite your lip until it bleeds, and the coppery tang of blood only strengthens your futile rage. At times, you find yourself cowering in a corner, unable to stay afloat in the overwhelming tide of memories that swamp you. You come back to yourself only to see that while the memory has changed while you fought your own demons, the fear and pain have not. You long for the blessed peace of unconsciousness; it doesn't come.

Eventually, you are numb.

You drift raggedly from memory to memory, noting little. There is no need, you've seen it all before. So when you open your eyes to find the stone wall of the cell before you, you are nearly unable to comprehend what you are seeing. You continue to float along, cold and quiet. No attention is paid to the figures that unchain you from the wall, or to the tall man who strides from the cell without a backwards glance. The cool stone on your cheek soothes your headache and you allow yourself to slide towards the floor.

Your eyes flicker open one last time as you begin the journey into unconsciousness, and you find that a now familiar pair of dark eyes follows you into an uneasy slumber.

You do not dream.

A/N: I don't enjoy begging for reviews, however some constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. This story is somewhat of a stylistic experiment for me, and I'd like to hear what others think of it. So please take a minute to drop me a line with any comments or questions you may have. I am always looking to improve. Thanks! -Rose


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Nope.

5.

Your eyelids are crusty with dried tears as you force them open an indeterminate length of time later. Hermione and Snape are both awake, each curled up as far away from each other as they can possibly be in a space this size. Neither is speaking, and the silence weighs heavily in the air. You can almost taste the bitter flavor of unease in the cell.

You moan slightly at the pounding in your head, and Snape turns, his eyes meeting yours. You still, fending off a storm of memories. Memories tinged with understanding, and an ever present flash of green. "I'm sorry." You rasp, heedless of the twinge in your throat. "I am."

He says nothing. This is not the storybook moment, where the hero and his misunderstood nemesis come to a grand understanding and forge a brotherly bond that will stand the test of time. If anything, the wall that stands between the two of you has grown taller and thicker.

As if by mutual understanding, you both turn away, knowing that no more can be said at this time, with things as fragile as they are. You reach out and grasp Hermione by the shoulder relishing for a brief moment the sense of true physical contact. You will never forget how powerless you were in those memories, unable to affect a single thing.

She starts slightly, then turns. Her movements are slow and cautious, and she doesn't meet your eyes."'Mione?" One word, a thousand questions. She looks at you finally, and you note her red, puffy eyes without comment. You doubt you look so hot right about now. She shrugs slightly, unable to completely hide her emotions. You hold her gaze for a minute, unsure of what to say. It wasn't you, and at the same time, it was. You've never told anybody, though you imagine there are those who suspect something wasn't right with the Dursleys. So in the end, you settle for silence.

Minutes stretch into hours, and Hermione eventually nods off against your shoulder. A house elf pops into the quiet and leaves a tray of food, as it has occasionally before. You assume that it happens roughly once every day, but with no windows and no watch, time passes differently for the three of you.

You all eat without talking much, shoveling the food in your mouths indiscriminately. After all, you never know when it will stop coming. As you learned from the Dursleys, food isn't something to be picky about. After your supper, if it could be called that, you retreat back to your corner, and Hermione and Snape follow suit. You cannot find it in yourself to break the quiet. Things are still too raw, and too much has happened in such a short period of time. You find yourself daydreaming about picnics by the lake with Ron and Hermione, quidditch practice and the feel of the wind in your face, even a simple charms class with Professor Flitwick. You sink into your memories, eyes wandering over the roughly cut stone of your cell, and are content to stay in silence.

It shouldn't surprise you that Hermione is not.

"Professor Snape?" She asks, and you jump, your reverie broken. Snape merely twitches slightly. "Sir, was that… was he your father?"

Everything freezes. Finally, the Potions Master nods once, sharply. "He was. He is dead now. Killed in the first war."

A/N: Thoughts? S'il vous plait?


	6. Chapter 6

Diclaimer: Not mine. How many times do I have to say it?

6.

Hermione asks no more questions after that. As time passes you stand, unable to sit still any longer. Your daydreaming has awoken a desperate longing inside you, and for the first time since you awoke in the cell, magicless but not alone, you feel the need to act. You pace the length of the room once, twice. At the end of your third pass, you give the door a vicious kick. Snape is at your side in a moment, grabbing you tightly and yanking you away from the door.

"Potter! What was that for? Of all the stupid imbecilic things…" The ex-spy trails off, muttering angrily to himself. You blink at the man, astonished.

He whirls on you after a second, his eyes angry and slightly wild. "Clearly, by the vacant Gryffindor stare you are giving me, you have no idea how the Dark Lord works!" He snaps. "And you were the supposed Savior of Us All, the Boy Who Lived. Merlin."

"Well, who else has ever stood up to the bastard, hmm? I know more about him then you think, Snape!" You snap back reflexively. You are used to people doubting your abilities, after all.

Snape's eyes burn. "I know more then you should ever wish to know, _boy_." He snarls, and you step back unconsciously. "The Dark Lord only likes to play when his prey can fight back. Gryffindork actions like _that_" he motions towards the door "are invitations for him to come and play!"

You glare back, too caught in the heat of the argument now to see your own mistakes. You're tired of being locked up in this cell, tired of being helpless. "Yeah, well I can stand up to whatever Tom can throw at me!" You shout, ignoring the pain in your throat and the way Hermione's eyes widen.

"No, Potter-" Snape's words, hastened by fear rooted in familiarity, are too late. The handle on the door turns, clicks open. In the hallway stands the Dark Lord, a smirk plastered across his serpentine face.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here? The little lion is roaring, isn't he? He thinks he has claws. Poor kitty." He drawls, voice dripping with malice.

Your eyes lock, green and red. Rage bubbles dangerously inside of you, fueled by the desperation that clogs your throat. You can no longer feel Hermione's hand gripping your shoulder tightly, nor her little sound that warns you, _begs_ you not to do anything dangerously stupid. You have found an outlet for your rage, the source of all your problems.

An animalistic growl escapes from somewhere deep in your gut and suddenly you are lunging, hands out stretched for the man who murdered your parents, who killed Cedric Diggory, who took away your magic and your free will. You want him dead, right now. Nothing else matters.

If you were to see yourself at that moment, you doubt you'd recognize the filthy, wild-eyed creature you have become.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I can barely buy highlighters, I don't own Harry Potter!

7.

You never stood a chance. With a stab of his wand, Tom sends you careening into the far wall of the cell, adding to the collection of scrapes and bruises that adorn your skin. You scramble off the floor, the adrenaline coursing through your veins helping you ignore the painful impact. A few more jabs of the yew wand, and you are chained tightly to the wall behind you, unable to move anything but your head. Snape and Hermione receive the same treatment.

You spew curses at the man standing in the middle of the cell, having learned well from your uncle and the members of the Gryffindor quidditch team, not to mention Dudley's beloved action films and an irate Professor McGonagall. Necessity is the mother of invention after all, and you have no weapon left but your tongue. When he finally silences you several minutes later with a well aimed charm, even the Dark Lord looks mildly impressed.

"Now", says Voldemort, "What to do with you. I _was_ going to leave you alone today, Potter, give you a chance to…rest, however you just couldn't do that, now, could you?"

You settle for giving the man your most furious glare. Sadly, he doesn't begin screaming in agony or spontaneously combust. Clearly, you need to work on your death stare.

"So, I must now figure out a way to punish you suitably. I had considered knives, but they are so very messy." The Dark Lord shifts his stance slightly, looking you up and down. "Hmm, yes, I think that is the solution. Bella!" He shouts, turning suddenly to look over his shoulder. "Bring me the irons. The five should do it."

You blink, puzzled. Irons? What, did Tom think he was going to frighten you with a display of deftly pressed trousers?

The way both Hermione and Snape pale does not escape your attention however. Suddenly, these 'irons' are much more intimidating. You try to speak, forgetting momentarily that you have no voice. Voiceless, magicless, clueless, things are not looking good for you. Hermione's lips are pursed and her fists are tightly clenched. Snape's eyes are closed, and his head is resting limply on the stone behind him. You swallow dryly. _Crap, _you think. _Way to go Potter. Looks like you've really done it this time._ And considering the situation you've already managed to drag Snape and Hermione into, that's saying something. _Bloody Tri-Wizard Tournament!_ You curse the whole event in your mind, not for the first time. You never wanted to participate in it in the first place, you're not exactly a fan of the whole dying thing. But it happened, and then you ended up here. In a dungeon. About to fall victim to some mysterious torture.

Bellatrix the Mad enters the room, and your heart rate jumps to about a thousand beats per minute. Those are no clothes irons. They are a strange pair of what look like round clamps, about the diameter of your forearm. Basically nothing more than a half circle of metal, attached at one end to a flat bar and connected like scissors.

With a flourish and a tap of his wand, the curved end of each iron begins to glow a bright cherry red. Your heart plummets into your stomach. Without thinking about it, you begin to yank frantically at the chains that hold your wrists in place. _This isn't happening,_ you tell yourself frantically. The _cruciatus _curse you can handle. You aren't so keen on finding out what this is like. By the time Voldemort rips the tatters of fabric from your forearms, you are gagging with fear. It's really happening, and there's nothing you can do about it.

A/N: Thoughts, please? I am considering upping the rating to M, but haven't decided yet.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

You come to still hanging from the chains in the wall. The agony hits you like an eighteen wheeler, driving into your stomach at ninety kilometers an hour. You gasp feebly, tasting the remnants of blood in your mouth. You vaguely remember biting your tongue in the midst of it all.

"…_-ter? Potter? Harry? Can you hear me? Potter!..." _The voice is slipping in and out of hearing, and the gaps are suspiciously timed with the grey fog that occasionally swamps you.

"Urgkh." You moan out. It was supposed to be 'what', but something seems to have gotten lost on the way. "Uhmm."

"_…Come on, you've got… stand, come on…they're going to release…fall…Harry!" _The last, said so urgently, begins to snap you out of your stupor; it is still too late. The chains around your wrists disappear, and you come crashing to the ground. The impact sends another wave of fire lancing through your body and you scream, or try too. All that emerges is a strangled whimper. Something is grabbing you, turning you over. You try to fight, they're hurting you! A cloud of brown obscures your vision and it clicks inside: that something is actually a some_one_, Hermione. You relax.

"Oh, _Harry_." She murmurs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry." She repeats, and something cool is dripping over your face as she cradles your head in her lap. You try to smile at her, tell her it isn't her fault, but everything hurts and unconsciousness is beckoning sweetly. You let it all slide away.

You come to again, increasingly familiar with the slow rise though the blackness that signals a return to consciousness. Your head is still cradled in Hermione's lap, and above your head, voices are twining in a soft dance of words. One is Hermione, but it takes you a second to identify the other voice as that of Professor Snape. It is quiet, and entirely without malice. In fact, the deep baritone has a remarkably soothing quality to it that threatens to send you under again. You blink once, twice, and wait for things to come into focus. Then you remember your glasses are gone, likely shattered somewhere between here and the Graveyard.

"Mmm". You mumble, still dizzy, but more lucid than you were last time. "Hrmm?" You mumble again, and the brown shape above you that is Hermione bends closer.

"Hey Harry. You're awake. How do you feel?"

"Hrmm?" You repeat.

She laughs slightly, and you can make out the ghost of a smile on her face. "Yes, Harry, I'm fine. Thank you for asking. You are such a Gryffindor." Out of your sightline, a figure snorts. Snape.

"He is indeed, Ms. Granger. Potter, try not to move too much. Your arms are still tender, and though we've done the best we can, it is best not to aggravate such injuries."

You mumble something in response, but you aren't really paying attention to them anymore. Your arms… Hell. You don't want to think about that right now. Gingerly, you shift the rest of your limbs. To your relief, everything else seems to work properly, though your head is pounding. You don't try to move your arms.

Coughing slightly to clear your throat, you try in vain to bring everything into focus. It still doesn't work, not that it has any of the other hundred times you've tried since you wound up in this cell. "So," you croak out finally, "What now?" You cannot see the glances your best friend and potions professor exchange, but there is no need for sight, as you can all but feel them.

"We wait." Says the Potions Master eventually. "We wait, and you heal."

You have no response to that.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Don't think so. Nope, not at all.

9.

Again, you find yourself rising from inky blackness into your new reality, and you decide you really don't enjoy these sudden and random losses of consciousness. The sight of the grey stone walls of your cell, blurry as your nearsighted eyes can perceive them, is quickly getting old. You are stretched out on the floor of the cell, lying atop a ragged scrap of fabric that at some point in the distant past might have resembled one of Professor Snape's cloaks. You assume slightly muzzily that it is there to prevent infection from the dirt of the floor. Infection… It reminds you, you still haven't looked at your new souvenirs; there is no need. You can distinctly feel the three bands of pain that encircle both of your upper arms. Each band is an inch or so tall, and they lie evenly spaced over the length of your biceps. Consequently every little movement sparks a fresh burst of agony, and it isn't long before you involuntarily break your silence and cry out.

It isn't a loud noise, simply a choked-back gasp, but it is enough. You can hear the sudden rustle of movement from somewhere off to your right as a blurry figure makes its way towards you. Judging by the lack of a bushy cloud of brown hair you guess that the figure is Snape, and as the figure bends closer to you, your guess is proven right.

"I see you've finally woken, Potter. It's been long enough."

You roll your eyes. Even now, the man has lost none of his acerbic intonation. Normally, you'd be unable to stop a waspish response from escaping your lips, but you aren't exactly having a normal day, or even a normal week. "I'm awake now." You mumble through parched and raw lips. As you squint and try to focus on his face hovering slightly off to the side you miss the sudden movement of his hands, only to give a strangled squawk as they reach down and grasp you around the upper waist. With a swift, strong motion the Potions Master has you in an upright position. Your head swims with the sudden change in orientation and your arms begin to pound in time with your head as you dimly note the careful way he settles you against the stone wall. Even once you are upright, the hands don't move as you fight to clear the grey spots from your vision and quell the sick churning in your stomach.

"Are you good, Potter? Can I let go now, or will you merely fall over again?" The unexpected questions bring you to meet the man's eyes with a start, though it takes you a few seconds before you feel in control of yourself enough to answer.

"Think so. Ugh. What was that for?" You grind out from between clenched teeth. In response, you feel a cup of some sort being pressed into your hands. The first sip of water only makes you more aware of how thirsty you are and it is all you can do not to gulp the rest of the glass in one go.

"You've been out for almost two days now, Potter. I imagine your body is crying out for sustenance." You say nothing, and simply take another sip of water. You focus on the way the cool liquid slides down your throat, soothing and calming. Snape has stopped talking, but you don't glance up at him, so focused are you on the sensation of the water on your lips, in your mouth, slipping down your throat and filling you with a sort of peace. The ex-spy does nothing to break this fragile shell you are constructing, and for a split second you feel an odd sort of camaraderie forming between the two of you. He too seems to understand the importance of just _being_ in times like this. With that niggling thought at the back of your mind, you let yourself plunge fully into the quiet.


End file.
